Both boys got their summer buzz cuts on Sunday evening. As you can see, James (top row) had an inordinate amount of hair for a 14-month old. He’d already had one haircut several months back — a traumatic experience for all involved. He was crying, momma was crying, Sammy was scared, I was frazzled and left wondering if I should leave him half shorn, or continue on trying to trim through the tears, snot and spastic movements. It was ugly, but we got through it and at the end he no longer looked like a hippie baby.

Sammy’s first haircut was similar, except I accidentally used the No. 2 guard instead of the 4 on the clippers, so more hair was removed than planned. This did not please momma, who was already deeply saddened by the idea of her first child’s first haircut. (What is it about moms and first haircuts? My own still keeps some of my original locks in a baby book.)

The most recent haircuts, borne of necessity after two wicked hot days and two really sweaty young heads, went quite well. The clippers got stuck a couple times in the Popsicle and watermelon extract that James had massaged into his roots, but there wasn’t a single tear shed. Moving the barber chair to the back deck even made cleanup easy. It brought me back to my glory days of barbering.

I honed my hair cut skills in college, when I served as the unofficial barber in one wing of the dorm. I cut my own hair so that I could put the $20 my grandmother would regularly send for haircuts to better use. Soon, others were lining up for my pro bono services. Perhaps lining up is misleading. The majority of my appointments came on a walk-in basis directly after “40s at 4″ on Friday afternoons, when visiting an amateur barber seemed like a great idea. (It’s tough to screw a buzz cut up too badly, though the malt liquor sometimes made for some crooked necklines.)

Now that I have two cooperative young ones to practice on regularly, I’d like to experiment beyond the simple buzz. Maybe racing stripes will make a comeback. I’d really like to talk Sammy into going with an Eric Montross flat top next he needs a trim.

My sons have become de facto vegetarians, but they’re the kind that doesn’t eat vegetables. I can’t blame them for passing on the peas and carrots, but their refusal to consume meat makes balanced meal planning difficult.

Sammy, 3, used to be a great eater. Before his first birthday, he’d house three slices of pizza then suck down a pint of whole milk. He had the belly and thigh rolls to prove it. Then, slowly, he started disliking items. Red meat was first. Oatmeal, a former favorite, became repulsive (though there was a puke incident that may have contributed to that one). Then salmon. Chicken nuggets were hurled, not eaten (I managed to co-create the only kid in America that doesn’t like chicken nuggets). Then things with tomato sauce. Pretty soon we were left with Crazy Bread, mini muffins, cereal bars, Uncrustables and strawberries as the only things he’d eat.

James, 1, has become similarly finicky. He never quite had Sammy’s appetite, but he used to eat some of whatever we’d put in front of him. Not any more. Now, he’ll strip his rigatoni of its meat sauce, pushing the ground beef to the outskirts of his tray, then overboard. Chicken is separated from rice, then rubbed on his head, stuffed down his shirt or spiked to the ground, but not chewed and swallowed. I tried to give him some guacamole and he made the same face I do when I have to chance his diapers that contain a similar looking product. His one exception to the no protein policy is seared sea scallops. He loves them. I’m sure he’d also enjoy foie gras and Beluga caviar.

The other night, I grilled burgers. Sammy outright refused to try one, demanding a slice of cheese on a bun instead. James carefully ate the bun off his, leaving the burger bare. It was a typical meal, but afterwards I was surprised by a request Sammy made as we were driving to the grocery store and passed a Wendy’s. He asked to stop for a cheeseburger. I explained to him that I just made cheeseburgers that he refused to eat. At this point, he cut right to the chase.

“The problem is, I don’t like your cooking,” he told me. “That’s what the problem is.”

It’s becoming clear that the little guy has no sense of safety or self-preservation. Now 13 months old, James still is not walking, but he crawls around with reckless abandon, going over and through all things that stand in his way. He’ll pull himself up on everything that provides some semblance of a hand grip. He regularly crashes to the floor with the play kitchen coming down on top of him when he tries to use the refrigerator door as a grab handle. When he does find something sturdy to pull himself up on, he gets excited and toddles at a frantic pace while using it for support until he forgets he can’t walk, tries to, and crumbles to the floor in a heap.

The stairs are his favorite. He’ll make a break for them anytime he gets a chance. Then he sets his sights on the top. The photo accompanying this post was taken seconds before he turned fully around to mock me, lost his grip and slid down a step until I caught him. He was not fazed. Moments later, he was back on them. This time, I put my phone away because I did not want to call my wife from the ER to report that I was about to get the cutest picture when James suddenly fell down the stairs (again). So I kept right behind him, stabilized him once or twice, and he was soon at the summit. This accomplishment thrilled him to no end.

It’s strange watching this fearless little bugger because Sammy, his big brother, has always been a very cautious child. He crawled early, but didn’t move on to toddling or walking until he’d perfected the prior movement. Only this spring, now that he’s three, has he dared go on swings and down slides. He’s the kid at the playground that tells the other ones to be careful. I could probably count on one hand the number of times he fell and banged his head in his first two years of life. With James, I lose track daily.

Fortunately for James, he comes from a long line of hard Minervino heads. Were it not for the loud thud it makes, I’m not sure he’d know that he’s conked his melon, which, according to his pediatrician’s head circumference chart, ranks in the top one-percent for kids his age. Just this afternoon, I was trying to rock him to sleep for a nap. I thought he was almost there, when suddenly he jerks back, gives me a big smile, closes his eyes, and whips his forehead straight into my collarbone. I thought I might need X-rays. He just re-snuggled up and was snoozing in moments.

1. Playing baseball in the backyard is the three-year old’s new favorite activity. Though the term “baseball” is used somewhat loosely. All it really means is we go out after dinner and I throw a Wiffle ball into the air, hit it as far as I can, let him retrieve it, and repeat. It’s pretty much fetch, only with a small human instead of a canine. After 15 or 20 minutes, he’s pretty worn out and we can head inside and wind down for bed. I think this is the same effect dog owners are going for.

2. The one-year old does not like meeting new people. I was carrying him at the playground while we watched his big brother run around. He’s got chubby cheeks, crazy hair and a Sputnik-like cranium, so he kind of stands out. This leads many people to come over and say hi to him. His response is either tears, grunting, burrowing into my chest, or some combination of the three. In this way, he is the exact opposite of his brother, who has always loved attention and yells “Hello! Nice to meet you!” out the car window to panhandlers.

3. They moved the Clynk depository at the Back Cove Hannaford. Last Saturday, with momma and big brother napping, the little guy and I decided to go get some groceries. I hadn’t been to the Back Cove Hannaford in several years because it is generally mobbed, but I figured we had plenty of time, it was a nice day … so what the heck. I grabbed our green bag of returnables and we got in the car. Once there, I plopped the boy in the cart and threw the returnables in the back. We went in the main entrance and I looked around for the Clynk drop-off spot. Couldn’t find it. Figured it must be near the other entrance. So we squeezed by packs of people and made our way across the entire front of the store. No Clynk drop-off at the other entrance, either. Bewildered, we wondered outside where we found a sign that said the Clynk had been moved to an outside location. No further details. No Clynk within site. So we made our way back across the parking lot to the original entrance to see if we missed it on the way in. Nope. Not there. Fortunately, we found an employee on a smoke break who pointed over yonder, at a diagonal, to the far end of the parking lot. There, indeed, was a Clynk trailer, roughly a quarter mile from the main entrance. Don’t know how we missed it. We trekked over and dropped off our lone bag. Oh, and the kiosk for payment slips is back near the original point of entrance, which we only discovered after reentering the store and visiting customer service. On the bright side, the create-your-own six pack option in the beer section is solid.

This is a common response I get when I explain to people that I am an at-home dad. I usually nod politely and say something about how the two boys do keep me busy.

Even at “full-time,” this job (and I use that term loosely) has some perks that few other jobs have. For instance, shaving is always optional and I can wear basketball shorts all day. But the truth is, up until last week, I had manipulated nap schedules so that it wasn’t really full-time at all. I’d get at least 90 minutes and sometimes two full hours in the afternoon when both boys were snoozing. This would have been a great time to vacuum, dust or scrub the tub, but it generally proved to be an even better time to comb the Notre Dame football message boards and catch up on missed Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

The days would go something like this: Momma heads to work at 9, James (little bro) goes down for a nap shortly thereafter, Sammy (big bro) and I watch cartoons, build block castles and read some books, James wakes up at 10:30, we go out for a run or walk, have lunch, do an errand or two, then it’s dual naps at 2:30, and daddy free time thereafter.

This little madman recently turned one and decided he’s done with his afternoon nap.

Recently, James turned one and decided he was done with the second nap. He still takes that first one, but it now goes from 9 a.m. til noon. Sammy and I are rendered house-bound during this stretch, and my wife says he’s too young to watch The Wire. That severely limits our options. By the time James wakes up, I’m ready for a nap after entertaining a three-year old all morning. No such luck. It’s lunchtime.

Once everyone is fed and I’ve picked most of the Goldfish cracker remains out of James’s hair, we’re close to 1 p.m. We can either go for a run or hit up the grocery store, but not both, before we need to be back for Sammy’s nap. Then it’s me and the little guy, mano-a-mano, for a long, long time. I’ll plop him in his crib while I take a shower, but he’s standing up and shrieking within five minutes. He just wants to be free to eat tiny objects off the floor and to try to pry the safety covers off electrical outlets. Any other activities make him angry.

So, unfortunately, this gig has turned into a full-time workload. The staggered nap schedule has ruined my afternoons of leisure. Where to get the best meatball sub in Minneapolis? Couldn’t tell you. I’m not even sure who Notre Dame’s second-string right guard is for Saturday’s spring game.

]]>http://hometeam.bangordailynews.com/2013/04/18/home/loss-of-leisure/feed/0Uphill Battlehttp://hometeam.bangordailynews.com/2013/04/04/home/uphill-battle/
http://hometeam.bangordailynews.com/2013/04/04/home/uphill-battle/#commentsFri, 05 Apr 2013 01:07:12 +0000http://hometeam.bangordailynews.com/?p=17Continue reading →]]>With the recent balmy temperatures in Portland, we were finally able to break the doublewide jogging stroller out of hibernation.

This was great, until I hit the first uphill climb of our maiden jog of the spring. Heading counter clockwise around Back Cove, we got about halfway up the hill to Tukey’s Bridge and I realized that my children have gained approximately 240 lbs. combined since the fall.

By the time we reached the summit, my quads felt as though they were being pounded into schnitzel and my huffing and puffing was scaring passersby. On the descent, I was finally able to catch my breath, but my legs felt gelatinous, so we slowed to a walk at the bottom.

“Dada, why you walking?” my three-year old inquired.

“Cuz I’m too tired to run any farther,” I said.

“Maybe you need a ride?”

“I would love a ride, but for now we’re just going to walk.”

As we plodded on, I considered the young man’s question. Obviously, a ride wouldn’t be feasible. I only really needed some help on the hill. The flat parts were fine. How could this problem be solved?

Back Cove sherpas that will push your stroller and children up the hill for a few bucks? No, too limited. What if we want to jog somewhere else?

Bring my wife along and have her push the stroller up the hills? Possibly. She’s big into the high-intensity interval training, so she’d probably love it, but that’s not going to help us during weekdays when she’s at work.

Then it hit me. Why hasn’t this been invented yet? A self-propelled jogging stroller. It’s technology that’s in almost every lawnmower you see at Home Depot. How hard would it be to apply it to a stroller? Just a squeeze bar or button to give you a little help when you need it.

This was the question posed to me by my three-year old son as I sat watching March Madness highlights on SportsCenter, hoping my coffee would clear the NyQuil fog that filled my head. It was a question that brought me great joy.

“Sure. Let’s make a pig.”

I knew just what he was referring to. There would be no Play-Doh involved, nor crayons, nor barnyard drawing apps. Certainly no breeding of real swine. The young man wanted to play P.I.G. (the abridged version of the basketball shooting game H.O.R.S.E, for those who are unfamiliar).

So we went into the playroom where his Little Tikes hoop stood against the wall. He picked up the soft rubber basketball and, from six feet away, fired it in the general direction of the hoop, missing wildly. He hasn’t quite mastered the intricacies of the game, or comprehended any of the actual rules. He thinks the game simply involves taking shots from across the room.

“Hey buddy, try holding the ball like this,” I said, positioning one hand behind the ball and the other on the side. He shot again. The ball caromed off the backboard. He got the rebound and ran back to me. I repositioned his hands. He took a couple bunny hops toward the hoop and attempted another shot. This one banked in the hoop.

“I made a pig!” he shouted, clapping for himself.

“Nice job, pal,” I said. “Why don’t you take a few steps back and try again from here?”

“No,” he responded. “I like to shoot in closer. It’s easier for me.”

I saw this as my opportunity to start developing his post game at an early age. He’s wise beyond his years, I thought. He’s tall for his age, definitely a future power forward. Too many big players these days are content to take shots from the perimeter rather than work for position down low.

“All right, I’ve got a good drill for you to work on,” I said. “It’s called the Mikan drill, named after George Mikan, one of the most dominant inside players in basketball history.”

I kneeled under the hoop with the ball and demonstrated.

“You shoot a lay-up off the backboard on the right side, take the rebound out of the net, then go up on the left side – make sure to use your left hand. Then it’s back to the right.”

I went through it a few times so he’d get the idea.

“OK, now it’s your turn, buddy.” I turned to hand him the ball, but he wasn’t there. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m in here, Daddy,” he said from the other room.

There he was, reaching into his baby brother’s Pack-N-Play (a euphemism for his open-air cage) to poke him with his foam pirate sword.